


Fortuitous Tragedies

by SuePokorny



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-31 03:38:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3962992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Porthos decided to make an overture of friendship to the sole survivor of the Savoy Massacre, he had no idea how much Aramis would affect his life -- if he could just keep him alive long enough to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When I saw the hug Porthos gave Aramis when he left for the monastery in the season 2 finale, I began to wonder how a bond so deep was formed. This is what sprang from that question. As always, I must credit my wonderful beta Sharlot for taking the time to make me look good. ☺

 

Fortuitous Tragedies  
Chapter 1

 

Porthos parried and dropped back, his sword swinging free, his feet shuffling in the loose dirt. His opponent grinned knowingly, pressing his advantage as Porthos scrambled to keep his form. He knew he wasn’t much of a swordsman, his normal weapon of choice his fists, but Treville had ordered him to work on his footwork, so sparring with the other recruits of the regiment was something he would simply have to endure. But it didn’t mean he had to like it. 

The clash of metal meeting metal rang throughout the courtyard as he thrust his blade forward, the motion met swiftly and decisively by the other recruit. The contact reverberated up his arm unpleasantly, feeding the frustration within his belly. Growling, Porthos stepped around his opponent, circling, looking for an opening. The man dropped his arm and Porthos saw his opportunity. Pressing in, he feinted with his rapier. When his opponent moved to defend, he swung his left arm into his unprotected shoulder, the sheer force of the blow knocking the man sideways. Ignoring the other recruit’s bellow of outrage, he followed with the sword in his right, twisting his wrist and butting the pommel against his opponents face.

The young recruit’s nose erupted in blood, and he went down hard, scrambling backwards as he tried to put distance between himself and the large man now hulking above him. The wounded man’s eyes were wide with fear but his expression quickly turned to one of indignation and anger.

“That’s against the rules!” the young man spat. He rubbed at his cheek where a dark red bruise was quickly forming. His eyes blazed as they looked up at Porthos who simply shrugged and stepped back. “We we’re supposed to be sparring – with swords!”

“You were obviously gonna win with just swords,” Porthos said calmly. “I evened the odds.” He held out a hand to help him up, knowing the gesture would be refused. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to make friends with any of the other recruits, but he refused to back down despite their disdain toward him.

The recruit continued to stare accusingly, his anger unabated.

Porthos sighed and dropped his arm, reluctantly stepping away, ignoring the looks of disapproval thrown his way from the other recruits in the courtyard. It wasn’t like he was trying to purposely hurt any of them, he just didn’t understand why they believed he should lose simply because they knew more about wielding a sword. It wasn’t in him to lose a fight – not when he knew he could win by utilizing his own talents. He knew little of proper dueling techniques, but he did know how to survive. If these recruits thought he was going to just lay down and allow them to win simply because they’d been instructed on the finer points of dueling when he had been forced to learn to win by any means necessary, they were going to be sadly disappointed.

Of course, the color of his skin was probably a larger part of why the rest of the recruits had kept their distance, only a few of the more experienced Musketeers deigning to see the potential in the muscular young recruit and making small overtures of welcome since his arrival. It didn’t help that most of those Musketeers had been on the ill-fated training to Savoy last month, never to return, their memories fading as the new recruits took root.

As the others helped the bleeding man to his feet, Porthos made his way over to the long table near the Captain’s balcony, tossing the rapier on the wooden top and dropping down onto the bench. Although some of the others watched him cautiously, he knew none would follow him to this particular table.

The other forlorn occupant made sure the area was given a wide berth.

Porthos grabbed a tankard, pouring water from a metal pitcher, downing it in one draw. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing at the man seated at the other end of the table from the corner of his eye.

Porthos had met Aramis once before the Musketeer had left for Savoy, finding him a friendly, gregarious sort of man. Always smiling; handsome and sociable, a fellow everyone wanted to be near – a contradiction to the man wearing his face now. Twenty-two men had left that cold spring morning for the mission, only one had returned. It had been one of the worst disasters in the short history of the regiment, and Aramis was the silent reminder of all that had been lost.

Treville had placed him on leave, insisting he take time to allow his wounds to heal before returning to duty. Aramis had stayed away one week. When he had limped back into the garrison, Treville had looked with dismay at the sight of the barely healed man, but not surprise. He’d welcomed him back, assigning him tasks that were normally given to the rawest of recruits, keeping his load light, but giving him a reason to awake each and every morning. When not cleaning weapons in the armory or helping Serge in the kitchens, Aramis had spent most of his time sitting at this table, barely eating, speaking only if spoken to, isolating himself from the rest of the world. 

As far as Porthos had observed, he barely moved when he sat here for hours at a time, always seated in the same position, back straight, head bowed, staring at the table under his hands. It was obvious Aramis’ attention was far away, despite his intense study of the wood beneath his long fingers, and the rest of the men had taken to leaving him alone, either not wanting to disturb his contemplation or trying to avoid being caught in the emptiness of his stare. 

Porthos was not so easily put off. He had grown up around people whose eyes held the same pain and heartache he could see in Aramis’, and he wasn’t one to look away. Since the Musketeer had begun to claim the table as his own, Porthos had started to make time to sit nearby, quietly, not speaking or disturbing him, simply letting himself be known. So far Aramis hadn’t seemed to notice him, but Porthos was determined to continue to keep silent company, hoping eventually Aramis would realize he was not alone.

Right now, Porthos’ frustration was getting the better of him and he slammed the tankard down on the table, not caring about remaining silent or unobtrusive in his tablemate’s presence. Normally, he had little trouble making friends wherever he went, but these men were proving difficult to understand, their lives so much different than his, their perspectives so diverse. He never considered himself a man who desired acceptance where it wasn’t offered, but he found himself longing for just a small gesture of kindness from any of these men he was supposed to fight alongside.

“He was right, you know.”

“Huh?” Porthos startled at the soft voice coming from his left. He turned and stared at the still Musketeer, head still bowed, dark curls hiding his face.

“You were hardly playing by the rules.”

Porthos snorted, covering his surprise that Aramis was deigning to converse with him. “Last time I checked, there were no rules to winning a fight.”

The Musketeer dipped his head in acknowledgement, but didn’t look his way. “That is entirely true. We can only hope young Michelle will realize that before he is engaged in actual battle.”

Porthos chuckled. “I don’t think Michelle is ready to realize anythin’ as of yet.”

“Probably not. And it will most likely be the death of him.”

The sadness and defeat in Aramis’ voice was not lost on Porthos.

“But you’re right,” he said quickly, forcing remorse he didn’t feel. “I did cheat. It’s just that I don’t feel right using a sword. It just doesn’t feel natural.”

“Then perhaps you need a bigger sword.”

Porthos’ brows rose as he turned his entire body toward Aramis. “A bigger sword?”

Aramis shrugged, his fingers tracing patterns on the rough wood of the table. “A rapier is an elegant weapon. I’m afraid elegant is not a word that can be used to describe your technique.”

Porthos was momentarily offended, until he realized the man was right. “True.” He picked up the rapier, eyeing it with disdain. “But what option do I have?”

“There are many swords in the armory.” Aramis finally turned, his dark eyes narrowing as they traveled across Porthos’ muscular shoulders. “If I were you, I would try a schianova – a broadsword. You certainly have the power to yield one, and it would be heavier, giving you better balance.”

Porthos pursed his lips, considering the idea, seeing the wisdom in the change. He smiled. “I’ll do that. Thank you.”

Aramis didn’t return the smile, but nodded his head in acknowledgement before he turned back to his contemplation of the table.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Captain Treville stepped out onto the balcony and leaned against the rough wood of the railing. His eyes roamed the courtyard below, watching, assessing, evaluating the progress of the new men. There hadn’t been so many raw recruits at one time since the initial formation of the regiment, but there had been little choice after the events at Savoy.

Twenty dead.

An entire company of Musketeers.

Men with such potential, such vigor, it was hard to believe they had been removed from existence so mercilessly. Spanish raiders had been blamed, but Treville knew the truth. It was an ugly truth, and he cursed the men who’d brought it about.

It had been a devastating blow to the regiment… to him. His culpability ate at him. He had not known at the time why the Cardinal had instructed him to divulge the location of the training mission to the Duke of Savoy, his only thought was as a courtesy so that the men would not be mistaken for a threat if discovered.

Little did he know the mechanizations of the Cardinal’s devious mind had already sealed their fate.

Treville’s unwitting participation in the tragedy did not absolve him of responsibility for their deaths, no more than it absolved him of his debt to the one man who had returned. 

His eyes moved across the courtyard, coming to rest on the dark, bowed head of the man who sat motionless at the table at the far end near the stables. 

Aramis.

It had been just over a month since they had brought him back from the snowy forest of Savoy, and a month since Treville had seen the light that had previously danced so readily in the marksman’s eyes. He had recovered, physically, but mentally and emotionally, Treville still worried for the young Musketeer. Before the mission, Aramis had been full of laughter and good cheer, always seeing the good in things, never flinching from responsibility or duty. Now, it seemed, he moved through his days as in a treacle, speaking to no one, keeping to himself as much as possible.

It had come to the point that the other men had begun to keep their distance, unwilling to breech the circle of misery that seemed to surround him. The fact Aramis was one of the best marksmen in the regiment – perhaps in all of France – had been the one saving grace. Treville had used Aramis’ skill as a wedge to keep the young man’s mind engaged. Even in his present state of despair, he was a finer shot than anyone Treville had ever seen, and the Captain had no problem utilizing that ability to keep him grounded and in the present when the fear of losing him to the memories that haunted him had become all too real.

Most of the recruits had grudgingly accepted his instruction – his ability never in question -- but only one had seemed to see more in the sullen Musketeer than a means to increase his own aptitude with a musket. Treville had been surprised the first time he had seen Porthos sitting at the table with Aramis, but he had been glad for it. As he watched them now, they didn’t speak, but they both seemed comfortable in each other’s presence and that was a step in the right direction as far as the Captain was concerned.

Who would have thought the men who represented the two biggest regrets of Treville’s life would find each other and take comfort in each other’s company?

He wasn’t sure if it was a relief or a punishment to see them together.

When he had first realized who Porthos was, he had done everything he could to get the young man recruited into the Musketeers. He was a fine soldier, a loyal and true servant to the crown, though he was raw as far as the others were concerned. Big and strong, he didn’t have the experience with blade or musket some of the other recruits had, and because of his origins in the Court of Miracles, he wasn’t as refined a gentleman as some of the higher born recruits. But despite those origins, it was apparent Porthos du Vallon was a good man – one Treville would be proud to stand beside. He felt he owed the young man that much. He had given him the chance to show his potential, now it was up to him to succeed.

Though Porthos’ former life was not known to most of the men, the color of his skin was something impossible to hide. It made no difference to Treville – the true worth of a man being what was on the inside rather than what was on the outside – but he’d noticed some of the others making comments when they believed Porthos was out of earshot. Nobody, as far as Treville knew, had had the courage to insult the muscular young man to his face – and he would make sure the first one that made that mistake was swiftly and decisively dealt with – but he had noticed how the other recruits had given him a wide berth despite his overtures of friendship.

Porthos had eventually drifted toward Aramis, not the least bit intimidated by the man’s air of dour solitude; never pushing, simply sitting near, letting him know he wasn’t alone. It had given Treville hope to see Porthos’ fearlessness slowly overcome Aramis’ self-imposed exile, the marksmen doing nothing to respond to the overture, but also doing nothing to discourage it.

Now they both sat, only an arm’s width apart, neither speaking, both comfortably aware of the others proximity. Treville smiled, there was hope for them both yet.

He had not assigned Aramis a mission outside the garrison since his return to duty, but Treville suspected the man needed to realize he was still a trusted member of the regiment if he was ever going to find a way to move on from the tragedy. Considering the straightforwardness of the missive he had just been given by the Cardinal, he saw it as the perfect opportunity to push the soldier back into duty. It would do him good to get out of Paris for a while, and it would give him time to remember who and what he was.

“Aramis!” he called, startling the man who looked up, surprise obvious on his face. Treville could not remember ever seeing the marksman flinch before the massacre, and was saddened to see it now. Pretending not to notice the man’s uncharacteristic reaction, he motioned for him to come up, shifting his gaze to the other man at the table and nodding. “You, too, Porthos.”

The two men exchanged looks of surprise, but rose from the table and made their way up the stairs.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

With both men standing before his desk, Treville picked a sealed parchment from the scattered papers strewn across the surface and handed it to Aramis.

“I have a missive that needs to be delivered to a Comte a half days ride north of the city. I want you and Porthos to deliver it.”

Aramis hesitated, his brows furrowed, his eyes narrowed as he studied the Captain’s face. Treville met the younger man’s gaze evenly.

“Problem?” he asked after a moment of silence.

Aramis swallowed, shook his head and reached for the parchment. “No, sir.” His voice was steady, but Treville could detect the note of confusion within. It had been two long months since the young Musketeer had been given any kind of responsibility and it was obviously unexpected. 

“Good,” Treville kept the marksman’s gaze, not letting his relief show on his face. “You are expected to wait for a reply and deliver it to the Cardinal upon your return.” He turned and moved back around the desk, dropping into the chair, making a show of returning to his work. When neither man moved, he glanced back up, schooling his expression into one of impatience. “Was there anything else?”

Aramis looked to Porthos then back to the Captain, his pride taking hold, not allowing him to voice the question that was obvious on his face. Squaring his shoulders he took a deep breath through his nose and returned the Captain’s gaze. “No, sir.”

“Then you are dismissed.”

With a curt nod, Aramis turned and exited the office, Porthos a beat behind him. Treville sat back and sighed, praying he was doing the right thing. He leaned back against the chair and braced his chin on his upturned hand. Whatever happened now was up to Aramis. Whether or not he had it within him to push his way back to the life he’d known before the massacre was yet to be seen, but Treville fancied himself a good judge of character – he’d be a poor Captain if he was not – and he saw something in Aramis the young man struggled to see in himself; resilience. He had been dealt a devastating blow, there was no denying that, but Treville had realized the depths of the man’s strength when he’d first recruited him into the regiment. He’d seen more than just a skilled marksman, a competent soldier who knew strategy and never flinched from confrontation. He’d looked into those dark eyes and seen a lust for life that was rare among men who placed their lives at the disposal of the crown. Aramis had stood out because he had found a purpose, a meaning for life in the death that surrounded them and Treville had needed that type of character to prevail within the newly formed Musketeers. 

Aramis’ zeal had made him a popular member of the regiment, the men following his lead, trying to live up to his example. The fact the mission to Savoy had dampened that ardor had thrown a shadow over the entire garrison, and Treville would do anything to see it return. He’d given Aramis time; to grieve, to heal, to come to terms with his own survival. Now it was time to see if his trust in himself, his trust in his God, was enough to overcome the doubt and misery that had encompassed him.

Treville had hoped, the first time he’d seen them together, that Porthos would have a positive effect on the marksman. He’d been encouraged when Aramis had not pushed him away and had begun to assign them tasks that would put them in each other’s paths. He didn’t know if there was a friendship forming, but there was a level of comfort between them that was a basis for one, which is why Treville had decided it was time to give them a gentle nudge forward. He hoped they would return from this mission stronger, knowing neither of them stood alone, and he would have a foundation for a company of Musketeers that could show the rest of the regiment what it meant to persevere.

And with the arrival of his newest recruit, he would be able to build on that foundation.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

A few leagues outside the city wall, Porthos turned to study his companion. Aramis sat tense in the saddle, quiet, his eyes darting from the road to the grassy plains around them. He supposed it was difficult for the man to be exposed like this, out in the open after everything he’d endured. Surviving an attack such as the one at Savoy had to do something to a man’s nerves and he couldn’t fault Aramis for being jumpy.

As far as missions went, this one was fairly straightforward and simple, but Porthos was happy to have received the summons from the Captain. He believed his involvement was more as an accompaniment for Aramis, but a mission was a mission and Porthos could only appreciate the Captain giving him the opportunity. This was Porthos’ first official mission as a member of the regiment and, as far as he knew, this was the first time Aramis had been outside the city since his return. Porthos had barely known the marksman before the mission to Savoy, but he’d been aware of who he was; his laugh, his flair, his roguish appeal the envy of every man in the regiment. Porthos remembered how everyone had been captivated by the easy manner in which Aramis carried himself -- which is why it had been so hard to watch him isolate himself from the others, to see his garrulous nature blanketed by guilt and depression.

Porthos had felt the need to help, but he knew his help would not be welcomed any more than anyone else who had attempted to engage the wounded man since his return to duty. He hadn’t expected anything to come of his attempt at companionship right away, but Porthos was nothing if not patient. With the rest of the men still leery of including him – because of his size, his rawness or the color of his skin -- he had found himself with plenty of time to sit with the wounded Musketeer, lending silent support whether it was welcomed or not.

He had been surprised when Captain Treville had approached him after the battle of La Rochelle, inviting him to join the King’s elite Musketeers, but he’d learned to accept opportunity when it came his way without delving too deeply into the reasons behind it, and had accepted without reservation. He’d know it would be an uphill battle considering where he’d come from, but he was up to the challenge and dared any man to try to take it from him.

It had been Aramis who’d made the first overtures of friendship when he’d been introduced with the other new recruits. It seemed his differences held no significance to the affable Musketeer, and Porthos had been beholding to him for treating him like any other soldier. It hadn’t stopped the others from giving him a wide berth, eyeing him suspiciously when they thought he wasn’t looking, but it had eased his nervousness that first day and given him a feeling of acceptance that he hoped to build on and subsequently find a place to belong.

Of course, the Aramis who had returned from the training mission was not the same man who had departed the garrison that day and Porthos could only sympathize with the cause of the change. By staying close, he’d hoped to repay the Musketeer’s kindness in some small way by letting him know he was not alone in his misery. When Aramis hadn’t chased him away, Porthos prayed his silent support made things a tiny bit easier on the man and had made a point to be near whenever he could.

“Must you stare?”

“Huh?” Porthos was brought from his thoughts at the sound of the other man’s voice.

“You’ve been watching me since we left Paris,” Aramis remarked, his voice holding no animosity. “I have been told I’m quite pleasant to look at, but it’s starting to make me nervous.”

Porthos chuckled. “Pleasant, huh? Who would’ve told you something like that? One of those many mistresses you’re rumored to keep?”

Aramis smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Some rumors are more true than others.”

“So you do keep mistresses?”

“Don’t you?”

Porthos tilted his head. “Haven’t really had the chance. Most women find me a bit… dark for their tastes.”

Aramis frowned. “Oh come now, Porthos. A strapping man such as yourself has plenty to offer a woman.”

“Are you flirting with me?”

Porthos was pleased to hear a laugh, genuine and filled with delight, come from the marksman.

“I’m afraid you are hardly my type, my friend.”

Porthos returned the laugh, a deep rumble as he smiled. “From what I hear, your type is anything that looks your way.”

The remark only made Aramis laugh harder. “And some rumors are just rumors. Contrary to what you may have heard, I have standards. Lofty ones, some people might say.”

“You like a challenge, eh?”

“I like the thrill of the chase, that I cannot deny,” he responded earnestly. “But I do not discriminate. A lady’s position does not matter to me so much as her disposition.”

Porthos threw his head back and howled in laughter, liking the man beside him more each moment. He glanced over and noted the pleased grin on Aramis’ face, realizing it was the first time since his return from Savoy Porthos had seen him truly smile.

“Well then, I suppose our next discussion should be about the ‘disposition’ you favor the most.”

Aramis raised a hand to his hat and tipped it back, leaning toward Porthos as if to share a secret. “To be honest, my dear Porthos, I do so like them all.”

Porthos crowed in delight. This was going to be a very interesting mission after all.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Fortuitous Tragedies  
Chapter 2

Silence had returned to their journey, but it was an amicable one, both men comfortable with the other, neither wanting to upset the new balance they’d seemed to find. Aramis sat straighter in the saddle, his shoulders lighter, for the moment unburdened of the darkness that had been weighing him down since his return to duty. He knew he’d been isolating himself from the rest of the regiment, but he couldn’t seem to help it. His sorrow at losing so many brothers – and being unable to help them -- was daunting, and he knew not how to quell the feelings of anger and guilt that swirled within his mind at his survival.

He tried not to think about it, but the harder he tried to forget, the more the memories pressed on his mind. Every time he closed his eyes he saw his comrades’ dead bodies strewn upon the field, preserved by the cold, dusted with a blanket of snow. The crows had come later, looking to dine upon the carrion, and Aramis had done his best to keep them away. But their numbers were many and he was but one man, alone and wounded, unable to protect the brothers whose lives had been given under such heinous circumstances. 

The task had been daunting and even Captain Treville had not faulted him for his failure. By the time the rest of the regiment had ridden to secure the sight, the bodies had been picked over and the blood had turned black, no longer discernable from the mud with which it merged. It was a scene that would forever play in his mind’s eye, a reminder of his inadequacy, a specter of his failure.

He glanced at his companion, his thoughts brightening as he studied the other man. Porthos had been diligent in his attempts to bring Aramis from his melancholy. Despite receiving no encouragement in return, the big man had never let Aramis’ complete disregard of his presence stop him from returning each and every day to fill the empty space near him. At first, he’d barely registered the company, but soon he’d begun to notice the familiar presence and a warmth had begun to settle in his gut whenever the other man drew near. Porthos had never asked after him or tried to force him into conversation, merely sitting quietly, letting Aramis know he wasn’t alone. 

And maybe it had been enough to keep him from losing himself entirely; enough to keep him grounded until his mind could find purchase and begin to sort through the turmoil, finding a hold back in the reality of the world. Aramis didn’t know how to repay this man – this virtual stranger – for such a noble act of kindness. He wasn’t entirely sure it hadn’t all been in vain, but he was humbled by the attempt all the same.

“What’s that?”

Aramis looked up, following Porthos’ outstretched arm to a point on the horizon. Smoke billowed in the distance, black and thick, on the far side of the field they were passing. It was probably less than a lieu away and Aramis could make out the bright flicker of orange flames under the rolling plumes.

“A fire,” Aramis responded. “From the smoke, I would say it’s from a structure. Perhaps a barn.”

“Should we investigate?”

Aramis looked at his companion, seeing the hope and uncertainty in his expressive face. He was aware this was Porthos’ first mission as a Musketeer and understood the man’s hesitation to deviate from his orders, but his desire to help was obvious and Aramis could not find it in himself to dissuade him.

“Our mission takes precedence, but I doubt the papers we have been entrusted are so important the Cardinal would not understand a slight delay. We are, above all, protectors of France,” Aramis shrugged. “It is our duty to lend aid wherever we see injustice.” His words were met with a smile of relief, and Aramis was glad to be able to consent to his new friend’s unspoken plea. 

“Then I say we see if there is anything we can do.”

Aramis grinned. “Spoken like a true Musketeer.” He reined his horse from the road and led Porthos across the field.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The fire raged, billowing smoke high into the sky when they arrived at the small farmstead across the field. As the two Musketeers approached, Aramis leapt off his horse before the animal had even stopped, running toward a small house, engulfed in flames, Porthos on his heels.

A man was at the open door of the structure, fighting against the fire, struggling to breathe through the smoke rolling from inside. Aramis grabbed the man by the shoulders and turned him, tossing him back into Porthos’ grasp.

“My wife!” the man screamed as he struggled in the larger man’s grip. “She’s still inside!”

Exchanging a look with Porthos, Aramis dove through the doorway, disappearing through the wall of flames.

“Aramis!” Porthos shouted even as he dragged the farmer back from the searing heat of the fire. His eyes scanned the inferno, searching for any sign of his friend. The farmer dropped to his knees, his blackened face a picture of misery as he slumped, defeated in the dirt. Porthos moved forward, holding an arm up against the intensity of the heat, swallowing his coughs as the smoke filled his lungs. “Aramis!” 

He noticed a bucket near a rain barrel and rushed across the distance, grabbing the bucket from the ground and dropping it into the half-filled barrel. He hurried back to the house, throwing the water against open doorway, trying to douse the flames. The wood hissed and the fire sputtered but did not relent its consummation of the house. He repeated the action, only vaguely aware of the farmer grabbing a second bucket and following suit. 

An ominous groan from the structure preceded part of the roof caving in, sending the flames higher into the sky and forcing Porthos back, away from the intense heat of the flames. Just as Porthos was gathering breath to scream his friend’s name once more, a figure rushed from the doorway, just as the rest of the structure disintegrated leaving nothing but a frame of stone and mason.

Aramis staggered blindly out into the fresh air, coughing, a woman wrapped in his cloak draped over his shoulder.

“Laure!” The man rushed forward, taking the burden from the Musketeer, hugging his wife as she choked and coughed, gasping in the fresh air. Aramis staggered back and dropped to a knee, hacking as he tried to draw breath into his lungs. Porthos knelt next to his friend, his eyes scanning him quickly for any signs of injury. Finding nothing but a few small burns across his hands and neck – his heavy leathers no doubt saving him from the worst of the heat -- Porthos sighed in relief and leaned back, slapping a hand on the man’s back.

“Breathe, Aramis, just breathe.”

“What… do you think… I’m… trying… to do?” Aramis asked between gasps of air and violent coughs. Porthos settled for rubbing a hand in circles on his back as he fought to gain control of his breathing.

“Sounds like you’re trying to hack up a lung,” he responded with a grin. At Aramis’ glare he sobered. “Just what the hell did you think you were doin’?” He lowered his voice, mindful of the happy reunion going on a short distance from them. “You could’ve been killed runnin’ in there like that!”

“You’re the one… who wanted to help,” Aramis responded around another cough, and Porthos winced at the rawness of his voice. 

“I didn’t mean rushing into a flamin’ building.”

Aramis shrugged. “Then next time… perhaps you could be… a bit more specific.”

Porthos shook his head, a rumbling laugh bubbling from deep in his chest. He was beginning to suspect this man may be even crazier than him. “Next time I will.”

Porthos held out a hand and dragged him to his feet, keeping a supporting arm around him as he swayed. 

“Thank you, messieurs.” 

Porthos turned to find the farmer standing, his arms around his wife, supporting her as she sagged into his comfort. She was still coughing, tears streaming down her soot stained face, but she was alive, her husband’s relief palpable. “I don’t know how to repay you for what you have done.”

Aramis waved a hand, shaking his head as he coughed. “No need. We were glad to help.” 

Porthos nodded his agreement. He looked at the house, which was nothing more than a pile of smoldering stone and ash. “I’m afraid there is little to be done about your home.”

The man laughed, the sound slightly manic. “A house can be replaced. My wife’s life cannot.” He took Aramis’ hand in both of his. “Thank you. I am in your debt. My name is Arnault. If ever I can be of service to you, please do not hesitate to ask.”

“I am Porthos and this is Aramis of the King’s Musketeers.” Porthos responded in kind. “Just take care of your family, Arnault. That is all the thanks we require.”

As the couple moved off to the barn, Porthos turned to his friend and looked him over. Aramis’ hair had been scorched a bit by the flames, but it had been long to begin with so the damage was hardly noticeable. Despite his soot-stained face and watery, red eyes, he looked no worse for wear outside of the way his breath wheezed in and out of his lungs.

“You all right?”

Aramis nodded, his answer taken over by another hacking cough.

“You’re mad, ya know that?” Porthos couldn’t help the note of fondness in his voice as he watched the smaller man straighten, running a hand through his unruly curls, grimacing at the feel of ash and soot that fell from the locks.

“It’s been said.”

“Well I’m saying it again.” Porthos sighed. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

Aramis shrugged and Porthos didn’t miss the fact that he failed to respond. As Aramis turned toward the rain barrel, cupping his hands into the water and splashing it across his face, Porthos frowned, his feeling of relief replaced by concern.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The rest of the mission went without a hitch. The Cardinal looked with distaste upon them when they arrived with the requested response in their disheveled and soot encrusted state, but Aramis simply gave him a cordial bow as if nothing was amiss and the Cardinal dismissed them without comment. Porthos barely contained his chuckle at his companion’s cheeky audacity.

Treville’s was no more responsive to their appearance, looking them over once to be sure they were relatively unharmed, then ordering them to clean up and report back to him in the morning for new orders. Aramis nodded in response and took his leave, Treville placing a hand on Porthos’ arm to stop him from immediately following.

“I take it things didn’t go as smoothly as he would like me to believe?”

Porthos shifted nervously, not wanting to betray Aramis’ confidence, but seeing no reason not to inform the Captain of the rescue mission that delayed them.

“There was a fire at a small farm we passed. Aramis saved the farmer’s wife, but the house itself was a loss.”

Treville nodded thoughtfully. “It was Aramis’ idea to lend aid?”

Porthos shook his head. “No, sir. It was mine. Aramis just reacted a bit faster when we arrived.”

“How did he seem to you?”

Porthos frowned. “Sir?”

Treville leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms against his chest, regarding Porthos with a level gaze. “You know what he’s been through.” At Porthos nod, he continued. “You’ve also seen how he’s withdrawn from the rest of the regiment. I’ve watched you with him – it’s why I sent you on this mission together. I want to know your impressions of his state of mind, Porthos. I can’t have anyone under my command who I cannot trust to act in the best interest of the Crown.”

Porthos bristled at the Captain’s words. He knew the man was only doing what he considered his job – looking out for the regiment and the King’s safety – but hearing his doubts aimed at Aramis left Porthos cold. He couldn’t explain his sudden need to defend his new friend; after all, he barely knew the man and Treville had been his commanding officer for some time. This feeling of protectiveness took him by surprise. While Aramis’ actions could be considered a bit… reckless… he would not allow anyone to question his courage – not even the Captain.

“He acted like a true Musketeer,” Porthos assured him, a slight edge to his voice that caused Treville’s brow to rise. “If you’re worried about him returning to duty, I can assure you there is nothing to be concerned about.”

That wasn’t entirely true, Porthos reminded himself. The sight of Aramis rushing into the fire flashed through his mind and it took every ounce of control he had to contain the shudder of fear that went through him at the memory. He didn’t deny his friend’s rash actions could be cause for concern, but he vowed to keep a close eye on Aramis, negating the Captain’s need for worry. Nothing more would happen to the marksman while he navigated his way back to himself, at least not if Porthos had anything to say about it.

Treville studied the larger man, assessing the truthfulness of his statement. Seemingly satisfied with his report, the Captain dismissed him and he left the office, letting out a breath of relief as he stepped out onto the landing. Aramis was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.

“I assume the Captain had a few questions about your first mission?” The Spaniard’s voice remained level, but his eyes were narrowed, and Porthos knew he suspected of the subject of Treville’s inquiries.

Porthos shrugged. “He was more interested in what I thought about you.” He wouldn’t lie to Aramis. He knew if they had any chance of building on their fledging friendship, trust would be an important facet. Porthos suddenly realized Aramis’ trust was something he very much wanted. 

Aramis’ brows rose at the blatant honesty. “And?”

“I told him you were professional and responsible.”

“And he believed you?”

“Nah.” Porthos grinned. “Probably not.”

Aramis’ smile beamed, the light in his eyes warming Porthos deep inside. He raised a hand and slapped Porthos on the back, letting his arm drape across the taller man’s shoulders as he steered him toward the barracks. “Perhaps we should clean up a bit before we head out for a few drinks, my friend. I know a wonderful place where we can find just enough trouble to keep us entertained for the evening.”

Porthos returned the smile and allowed himself to be led. “Sounds like my kind of place.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Treville watched from the window as the two men moved across the courtyard toward the barracks. He’d recognized the concern in Porthos’ eyes when he’d asked about Aramis, but he’d also seen the loyalty and desire to protect his new comrade – something that had made Treville quite pleased. Seeing the spring in Aramis’ step as he steered Porthos to their quarters made a small part of the concern he’d harbored for the man since his return settle. He had been right to assign them this mission together. It seems as if Porthos had been able to bring out a glimpse of the old Aramis that had been locked away these past two months, and, in return, the marksman had shown Porthos he had a place here in the Musketeers.

It was a bond that Treville hoped would flourish and set both men on the path to fulfilling their potential. 

As they disappeared from view, he caught sight of his newest recruit entering the courtyard from the archway. The man stood rigidly, his face betraying no trace of emotion as he slowly looked around the garrison. He was dressed in an elegant doublet, no doubt expensive, his hat perched on his head, the shadow of the brim hiding his eyes. He looked steady, though Treville had seen the man take down three men after two bottles of wine, so could make no determination to his sobriety at the moment. He would admit to being a bit surprised this man had remembered his offer, let alone decided to pursue it. Despite the new man’s penchant for wine, Treville recognized quality when he saw it. Not only was this man a remarkable swordsman, he was obviously of noble birth, though he didn’t seem eager to use it to his advantage. When asked his name, the man had hesitated before divulging one word: Athos. The man’s eyes finally came to rest on the Captain’s, and he nodded in greeting. Treville returned the gesture and waved him up, taking a deep breath as he garnered himself for his next encounter.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Fortuitous Tragedies  
Chapter 3

Day to day duties in the garrison could be tedious, but Porthos soon learned, with Aramis around they were never dull. Despite his bouts of understandable melancholy, the marksman proved an entertaining companion; quick-witted, intelligent, and more than a little mischievous. Porthos found himself looking forward to whatever tasks the Captain assigned them now that he’d decided to pair them up more often than not.

Perhaps it had been noticed that Porthos’ presence was enough to entice Aramis out of his self-induced exile, or perhaps it was because Aramis’ tutelage was turning Porthos into a capable Musketeer. Whatever the reason Treville continued to throw them together, it was obviously beneficial to both men and Porthos silently commended the Captain on his intuition.

Porthos had even been able to coax his new friend to a tavern a time or two since their return from their mission, plying him with enough wine to keep him from thinking too much and retreating back into the shadows that haunted his memories. But he could tell the marksman was not as jocular as he pretended to be. While Aramis showed the world a light-hearted lust for life, Porthos could see the darkness that still lurked in his eyes. He applauded the man’s efforts to rein in his demons, but knew the monsters still crouched in the recesses of his mind.

It wasn’t as if those demons had taken complete hold; Porthos doing his best to eclipse them and keep them at bay until his friend could defeat them on his own. And Aramis was still fighting -- Porthos could see that. It was apparent in every glass he raised and every smile he forced, but whether or not it would enough to anchor him within the world of the living was yet to be seen.

For his part, Porthos was finding that being Aramis’ friend was an appealing undertaking. He found that he truly liked the man. The other Musketeers had been delighted to see their comrade once again smiling and joking, seeming to put the tragedy he’d survived behind him, and Porthos had been included in their welcome as Aramis’ insisted he remain by his side. With Aramis’ return to their ranks, the other Musketeers had managed to look past the color of Porthos’ skin and found an honorable man who lifted the spirits of their old friend, and thanked him for it with their regard.

Unfortunately, none of them chose to look too closely at Aramis’ miraculous recovery. It was only Porthos who suspected Aramis’ newfound lust for life was a cover for the actual pain he still felt at the loss of twenty of his friends. They’d all lost friends at Savoy, the pain of the massacre still widely felt among the regiment, but none had suffered as much as Aramis. No one wanted to witness the depths of the marksman’s grief, instead accepting the cheerful countenance he deigned to show them and moving forward, expecting him to move along with them.

Porthos saw something else.

There had been a few nights when Aramis had taken leave of Porthos’ company, slipping away, only to show up the following morning with scratches and bruises he didn’t even try to explain. Porthos hadn’t inquired about the injuries, thankful his friend was intact and relatively unscathed despite his choice of nocturnal entertainment. Porthos vowed to speak up if the injuries escalated, but so far it had been nothing but minor abrasions, and Porthos had respected his privacy, not intruding, simply standing at his side, letting him know he had his back if needed.

Today the Captain had the two of them patrolling the marketplace, keeping an eye on the vendors and their patrons, looking for anything that could cause trouble within the peaceful confines of the city. Aramis accepted an apple from a woman selling fresh produce, bowing cordially and smiling as he took a bite of the juicy fruit. Porthos raised his brows and shook his head, by now used to the reaction his friend received from the female part of the population.

“You look… satisfied,” he remarked as they turned a corner near a vendor selling fresh bread.

Aramis took another bite and grinned, speaking as he chewed. “It’s just an apple, Porthos. If you smiled more, perhaps the fine ladies of Paris would see fit to gift you with their wares more often.” He let his brows bob up and down lecherously, a grin painted on his face as he nodded to another woman behind a cart of trinkets.

“That’s not what I meant,” Porthos clarified. He pointed toward the fresh set of scratches on the side of his friend’s neck, barely covered by the ends of his unruly curls. “You’ve been showing up properly marked these last few days. Just looks like your havin’ yourself a right good time.”

Aramis huffed a laugh, but his eyes narrowed, remaining dark and cautious. “It’s amazing what a bit of companionship can do for the soul.” Though the Musketeer had suffered no lasting injuries from his headlong rush into the burning building, Aramis’ voice was still a low, course rumble, the effects of the smoke he’d inhaled leaving a dry roughness like the wheels of a cart over cobblestone. It only served to enhance his rakish air, a fact Porthos found equally endearing and annoying.

“It isn’t your soul I’m worried about.” 

Aramis placed a hand on his chest dramatically. “Why Porthos, I’m touched you care.”

“Of course I care, you idiot. That’s why I’m pointin’ it out.”

Aramis’smile warmed. “I know you do, my friend, and I appreciate it, but I am perfectly capable of handling my own affairs.”

Porthos snorted, doubtful of the boast. While Aramis’ capability was not in question, his motivations still caused Porthos concern. “And this affair, would it be with the fair haired lady you greeted at the market when we arrived?”

“Ah, the lovely Madamoiselle de Gondrad. Come now, Porthos, you know a gentleman never disparages a lady’s reputation.” He took another bite of the apple, then tossed it, half finished into a basket near a poultry vendor.

Porthos brows rose and he stopped, grabbing his friend’s arm, turning him so they stood in the center of the flow of people, face to face.

“Madamoiselle de Gondrad? As in the mistress of the Marquis de Sévigné?” Porthos huffed a laugh and shook his head in amazement. “You play a dangerous game, my friend. Word is the Marquis is not one to share what is his.”

Aramis’ gave him an indifferent shrug, but his grin was predatory. “A woman’s heart truly belongs to no man.”

“I don’t think the Marquis would agree. He’s had men killed for simply looking at her, let alone putting their hands upon her.”

“Fear not, Porthos. Remember, I have recently looked directly into the face of death, and it was not I that flinched first.”

“So what? You believe yourself untouchable now?”

“Fear not, Porthos. I do not court death, but I will not hide from it either.” He sobered, his grin fading to a sad, lost smile. “Once one looks into that chasm, finding meaning in all else becomes the challenge.” Aramis slapped him on the shoulder and moved off down the aisle, leaving Porthos staring after him, a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Ironically, it was Aramis who suggested they retire to the tavern when their patrol came to an end, claiming The Wren served a decent lamb stew along with the ale and wine. Porthos, never one to pass up a chance at a good meal, heartily accepted the invitation, hoping to engage his friend in a game of cards or dice, anything to keep him from disappearing into the night, only to return with more scratches, bruises or worse.

Since learning of Aramis’ affair with the mistress of the Marquis de Sévigné, Porthos had been unable to quell the unease in his mind about the marks that had begun appearing regularly on his friend’s body. Porthos didn’t normally heed rumors, but being brought up in the Court of Miracles made one aware that there were people out there who found pleasure in more… iniquitous ways. He didn’t want to believe Aramis was one of them, but his behavior was beginning to make Porthos wonder if his new friend was oblivious of the danger he was placing himself in or purposely courting it. 

Of course, it could just be that Aramis liked a bit of pain with his pleasure – a desire Porthos had to admit relishing a time or two himself. He’d heard the Mademoiselle de Gondrad liked to play rough, and if rumors were true was well worth the trouble, but it was simply hearsay and Porthos had never had the inclination to delve further into such gossip. But the Marquis was not a man to be trifled with, and if Aramis was bedding the Marquis’ mistress as he had led Porthos to believe, untouchable or not, he was playing with fire – and this time Porthos was certain he would get burned.

The stew turned out to be as good as claimed, and Porthos sat back, his stomach filled, a mug of ale in his hand, content to bask in the company of his comrades. A few men were gathering around a table to play a game of Ombre and Porthos’ eyes traveled to the table wistfully, his hands itching to try his luck against the more elite players. He’d always been good at slight of hand in the Court, learning to bend the odds in his favor by necessity in order to eat and keep himself clothed. He’d refrained from cheating so far, wanting to make a good impression and give Treville no cause to doubt his decision to invite Porthos into the regiment, but as he watched the players, he knew he could beat them – perhaps even without having a king or two up his sleeves -- and ached for the chance to try.

“I see your lady lies a bit more on the side of luck.”

“What?” Porthos attention was drawn back to the man across the table. Aramis dark eyes danced knowingly, the grin on his face showing his understanding of the need for danger. 

He made a show of turning his head, watching the players as they dealt out another hand. “Our vices may be of a different nature, but I can recognize a need when faced with one.” He returned his attention to Porthos, his smile warming. “You need not worry about me tonight, my friend. I give you my word I will not stray from your sight. Perhaps tonight I will endeavor to keep you safe from the call of your siren.”

Porthos laughed. “You tellin’ me not to join ‘em?”

Aramis shrugged and took a drink from his mug. “I’m merely voicing a concern for your… solvency. The gentlemen at that table are not the inept gamblers they appear to be. They could even be called card-sharps, though I would not say it aloud.” 

“I believe you just did.” Porthos pointed out. While Aramis’ voice could not be considered boisterous, it was certainly loud enough to carry across the room. 

Aramis’ grin returned. “I did, didn’t I? I must be more careful. One can never be certain who may be listening in on private conversation between friends.” His eyes twinkled with delight and Porthos couldn’t help but return the grin. The man was devilish when he wanted to be.

A glance to the side showed one of the men at the gaming table watching them, eyes narrowed and dangerous.

Porthos hadn’t been looking for a fight, but he’d never backed down from one – even one he’d not initiated. Looking at Aramis, his brows high with question; the man may deny courting death, but he obviously had no problem flirting with danger. Porthos laughed at the look of feigned innocence stretched across his friend’s face. He felt good; fed and happy, ready to take on the world… or a tavern full of revelers if the opportunity presented itself.

“Excuse me, monsieur.”

It looked like opportunity would indeed call upon them. 

The two Musketeers glanced up, courteous tolerance painted on their faces. 

“Is there something we could do for you?” Aramis slouched in his chair, the very picture of indifference.

The gambler glared at Aramis, unimpressed with his show of insouciance. 

“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”

Aramis shook his head and leaned across the table, speaking to Porthos in a loud whisper. “As I said, one never knows.” He leaned back and turned to address the gambler. “I’m sorry you felt the need to eavesdrop, monsieur, but I assure you, no offense was intended.”

The man bristled, his hands clenching into fists at his side. “Offense was taken. I do not appreciate being called a cheat. I demand you apologize for this slight.”

Aramis frowned and turned to Porthos. “Did I mention the word cheat?”

Porthos pursed his lips and made a show of considering the question. “I can’t remember hearin’ that particular word.”

Aramis nodded and returned his attention to the irate gambler, waving a hand toward his friend. “There you are. Porthos does not recall the insult – and he has an impressive memory I assure you. Therefore, your integrity has not been impugned and no apology is necessary.” He continued to smile at the gambler in a manner that made the man seethe all the more. Before he could open his mouth to retort, Aramis slammed his mug down onto the table and rose to his feet, standing face to face with the man in a movement as quick as it was graceful. His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes darkened, taking on a dangerous look that made the gambler stumble back a step in surprise. Porthos stood slowly, allowing their unwelcome guest’s eyes roam across his broad shoulders.

After a moment of intense silence, Porthos grinned. “I don’t think he wants any trouble, Aramis.” The big man’s voice was a low growl, it’s affect on the gambler instantaneous. 

“Um… no…,” the man muttered, finally noticing the fleur-de-lis on Aramis’ shoulder guard. “I have no quarrel with the King’s Musketeers. I apologize for my forwardness, monsieur. Allow me to buy you both a drink.”

Aramis’ stance relaxed instantly, and he raised a hand to slap the gambler on the back. “No offense taken, my friend. Your offer is graciously accepted.” He grinned at Porthos, who was still standing tense, his eyes narrowed as he watched the cowed man stumble away, bypassing the gaming table for the bar.

“You certainly have a way with people,” he grumbled as they returned to their seats, drinking deeply from their mugs. 

Aramis shrugged, obviously pleased with himself. “It’s a gift. But the night is young, dear Porthos. I’m sure we’ll be able to find ourselves suitable entertainment before the evening is done.”

Porthos laughed and shook his head. “Kind of what I’m afraid of.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

As the evening progressed, Porthos was joined the card game, winning enough to keep him in gun oil and ale for the foreseeable future. He hadn’t even needed to cheat, smirking at the looks of caution on his opponents’ faces, knowing they’d made it a point to let him win, having been witness to his and Aramis’ earlier encounter with the card-sharp. While he didn’t normally employ threats to win, it was a fortuitous turn of events and he wasn’t about to overlook such an opportunity. He made an effort to smile menacingly a time or two, bringing wide-eyed looks of worry from the other players and bouts of gleeful laughter from Aramis.

The marksman, for his part, had spent his time drinking and having loud, somewhat lewd conversations with the wenches serving the patrons of the tavern. The women seemed eager to win favor with the handsome Musketeer, and kept his mug filled as well as his lap whenever either threatened to empty. Porthos could only shake his head fondly as another woman wrapped her arms around his friend’s neck, pressing her face to his, whispering something that brought a broad smile to the man’s face. He’d been drinking steadily while Porthos had tapered his own consumption, needing to concentrate on the game lest his opponents get any ideas of cheating him and separating him from his newly found wealth.

The wench’s suggestion had obviously piqued Aramis’ interest, and he laughed drunkenly, throwing his head back and nearly unsettling the chair they both perched upon. Noting his friend’s state of inebriation and not wanting him to end up in a whore’s bed without due consideration, Porthos excused himself from the game – much to the relief of the other players – and made his way back to the table, intent on disentangling the woman from his friend and carting him home before he passed out. Aramis’ reputation as a lothario was not exactly a well-kept secret – his affair with the Marquis’ mistress a prime example. Despite his inclination to flirt with anything in a skirt, Porthos was fairly sure Aramis held himself to a higher standard than a common tavern wench. Drinking with one of these women was one thing, but sleeping with them was another game entirely and Porthos was certain Aramis would not dispute finding the cleaner -- and less diseased -- ladies of higher birth much more to his tastes. 

Peeling the disappointed and overly enthusiastic wench from Aramis’ lap, Porthos managed to get his friend on his feet and heading in the general direction of the door. A hand on the smaller man’s shoulder kept the weaving to a minimum, and Porthos couldn’t help but chuckle at the heavy-eyed smile adorning the Musketeer’s face.

“I don’ think Estelle was very happy with you, P’thos,” Aramis slurred as they moved from the dark, dank confines of the tavern into the slightly fresher air of the Parisian night. 

Porthos laughed. “Oi, but I’m fairly sure you’re going t’be thankin’ me in the mornin’ for keeping you from her clutches.”

Aramis actually giggled. “I’m rather thankful now.” He leaned toward the larger man and whispered loudly, “She wasn’t the nicest smelling woman I’ve had on my lap.”

“I’m sure she wasn’t the worst either.”

Aramis tilted his head as he thought about it for a moment. “I’m fairly sure you’re right, my friend.”

Porthos’ laugh boomed through the street and he slapped a hand on Aramis’ shoulder, grabbing his friend with the other as he staggered from the force of the blow.

“Hey! Musketeer!”

Both men turned, their attention drawn to the two men stepping onto the street from the dark alley beside the tavern.

Aramis attempted to move forward but was thwarted by Porthos hand on his arm.

“What do you want?” the big man asked, his eyes narrowing at the men as they approached, hands on the hilts of their swords.

“Are you the Musketeer they call Aramis?” The taller of the two directed his question at the marksman, who, Porthos noted, suddenly seemed much less inebriated than he had only moments ago.

“I am,” Aramis shook off Porthos’ hold and nodded his head. “Have we met?”

The man shook his head. “No, but I have a message for you from my employer.”

“And who would that be?”

Before the man could respond, Aramis was struck from behind and pitched forward, dropping to the ground, stunned. Porthos shifted to find two more men, daggers raised, standing in the shadows behind them.

“You don’t want to do this,” he warned, his voice a low rumble. He moved to his left, placing himself between the men and Aramis, giving his friend a chance to regain his equilibrium. He didn’t see any blood, which was a relief – meaning the marksman had probably been struck by the blunt end of the man’s dagger rather than the blade. Aramis was down on a knee, hands flat on the ground supporting his weight. Porthos didn’t know if he was wounded or simply stunned, but he was shaking his head as if to clear it, his breath harsh and stilted. 

The tall man merely smiled. “I have my orders.”

“And just what kind of message were you ordered to deliver?”

“The kind that hurts.”

One of the men from behind rushed forward and Porthos sidestepped the dagger, smashing his forehead against the other’s face, sending him to the ground in a heap. He grabbed the back of Aramis’ doublet and hauled him to his feet, pushing him back toward the tavern as the other three attacked at once. 

Unable to draw his sword, Porthos roared, charging the men, wrapping his arms around one and swinging him against another. From the corner of his eye he could see Aramis react as the fourth man rushed him, brushing aside the man’s arm with his own and shoving him face first into the side of the building. The man he’d head-butted was clumsily rising to his feet, and Porthos tossed the man in his arms into him, knocking them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Rushing footsteps heralded the arrival of three of Cardinal Richelieu’s Red Guards and the men were rounded up and shoved against the tavern wall along with the two Musketeers.

“What’s all this then?” One of the guards took charge, sneering at the pauldron on Aramis’ shoulder. “Musketeers fighting in the street? Doesn’t surprise me considering the scum Treville has been recruiting as of late.”

Aramis surged forward in anger, but was held back by a gloved hand on his arm. 

“These two men were attacked without provocation. As a witness I would gladly testify to this in front of the Cardinal or the King himself.”

Porthos looked up to see a man clad in a dark leather doublet standing between Aramis and the Guard, physically restraining the angry Musketeer. He held himself with authority, his bearing noble, his eyes hard. The man was armed, an expensive yet well-worn sheath holding what looked to be a rapier of fine quality. He didn’t yield to the guard’s show of authority, merely squared his shoulders and met the man’s gaze with a look of reproach.

“And who would you be?” the guard asked after a beat. 

“Simply a concerned citizen who would see justice done,” the man responded as if conversing about the weather.

The Guard made another attempt to stare the man down, finally relenting and motioning toward the four men who’d initiated the attack. “Take them to the bastille. We’ll sort this out in the morning.” He directed a glare to Porthos before letting his eyes fall on Aramis. “Your Captain will hear of this, Musketeer.”

Aramis ignored the man, his attention already turned toward their mysterious benefactor.

As soon as the attackers were herded off into the night, Porthos let his eyes roam over his friend.

“You all right? You went down hard there. I thought they’d stabbed you.”

Aramis smiled and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “I’m fine, Porthos. They merely caught me off guard.”

“I was under the impression the King’s Musketeers were always on guard.”

Aramis’ eyes narrowed at the stranger. “Even Musketeers are allowed to lower their defenses when not on duty, Monsieur…” He let his words trail off, obviously expecting the man to respond with a name.

“Perhaps your defenses should not be allowed to drop quite so low.” The man’s cool blue eyes raked over the two men before him and Aramis couldn’t help but feel they had failed to impress. 

Aramis huffed a laugh, hiding his irritation at the strangers rebuff behind a cold smile. “Then it is good God smiles upon fools and Musketeers, for your timely interference was most divine.”

The man raised an arched brow, but did not respond.

Aramis mirrored the expression. “Do you not believe in God, my friend?”

“I believe. I’ve just not had cause to like him much.” The stranger nodded stiffly. “Good evening, gentlemen.” He turned and moved off down the street, disappearing into the darkness.

Porthos and Aramis stared after him. 

“Huh,” Porthos finally grunted. “Friendly sort, wasn’t he?”

“Downright charming,” Aramis snorted. Although the stranger never changed the tone of his voice, Aramis recognized a dressing down when he heard one. He turned his attention to his comrade. “Are you all right?”

Porthos grinned. “Never better.” He rolled his shoulders. “Where I come from, that was nothing but a warm up.”

Aramis couldn’t help but laugh. “Then I am quite sure I never want to visit wherever it is you’re from.”

“You’d do all right. I saw the way you drove that bloke into the wall.”

“I didn’t like his message.”

Porthos shook his head at the smaller man’s cheeky grin. “Any idea who the message was from?”

Aramis shrugged. “Unfortunately, it would seem, I am a very popular fellow. But, I would lay odds on the card-sharp we chased away earlier this evening.”

Porthos nodded in agreement. “Except the message seemed intended for you alone. They were pretty clear on your name. Perhaps the Marquis you’ve been cuckholdin’. I’m sure he’d like to have a word or two with you.”

Aramis chuckled and rubbed at the back of his head again, wincing as his hand moved across a tender spot. “The list is long, I’m afraid, and I’m far too tired to consider it at the moment. Perhaps we should come at it when our minds are fresh and free from the constraints of ale?”

“Probably a good idea.” Porthos agreed. “Then I guess we should call it a night, eh? You think this’ll get back to Treville by morning?”

Aramis sighed. “I wouldn’t doubt it. The Cardinal is almost always more than happy to share any indiscretions he becomes privy to. Fortunately, our Captain is a fair man. He would not deny us a moment of respite from the rigors of duty. I assure you, Porthos, we have nothing to fear from Treville.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“Well, Aramis, what do you have to say for yourself?”

As it turned out, Captain Treville was less than thrilled at the evening’s turn of events.. 

Aramis stood, stiff and at attention, trying not to flinch as the Captain’s voice reverberated through his aching head. He hadn’t been paying close attention to the man’s words due to the pain pulsing inside his skull, threatening to coax his stomach into joining the rebellion, but the Captain’s displeasure had been made abundantly clear. He knew the throbbing was only partially due to the copious amounts of ale he’d imbibed the night before; the blow that had driven him to the ground no doubt playing an equal part in his misery.

He hadn’t shared this morning’s particular misery with Porthos, not wanting the man to worry about his already fractured mental stability. He knew Porthos was concerned about him -- which was in equal parts comforting and annoying – and Aramis wasn’t about to give the man any more cause to fret. He was still unsure of what his future should hold, knowing he was expected to move forward while his memories continued to tether him to the past. If it wasn’t for Porthos’ stalwart companionship, Aramis knew the choice would have already been made.

“Well, Aramis?”

Treville’s question brought him back to the present and he blinked, realizing he had no idea what the man had just said. He cleared his throat, stalling for time, letting his eyes slide to the side, but Porthos focused his gaze straight ahead, offering no insight into what he had missed.

“Sir?”

Treville huffed, exasperated, and leaned close, his face only inches from the Musketeer’s. Aramis could smell the sweet scent of brandy on his captain’s breath and swallowed hard. Treville drinking before breakfast did not bode well for whomever had raised his ire.

At the moment, it appeared to be them.

“I assure you, Captain, we were not at fault.” Aramis was surprised at the even tone of his voice as he met Treville’s gaze. He squared his shoulders as the Captain stepped back, crossing his arms on his chest, his brow raised in expectation.

“The attack against us was unprovoked,” Aramis continued, encouraged the Captain was attentively listening to his account. “We were simply defending ourselves when the Red Guard happened along. Thanks to Porthos’ fighting skills, we didn’t even need to draw a weapon.”

Treville looked from Aramis to Porthos, who quickly nodded his agreement.

“The men who attacked you, who were they?”

Aramis shook his head. “Errand boys,” he responded. “Sent to deliver a message.”

Treville frowned. “What message? From whom?”

“The Red Guard showed up before we could ask,” Porthos interjected. 

Treville leaned back against the edge of his desk and breathed out through his nose. “I will have them questioned before they are released.” He raised his eyes, stern as he stared at his two subordinates. “But I do not want to hear any more reports of my men fighting in the streets like common thugs. Is that clear?”

Aramis and Porthos both nodded and Treville relaxed his stance as he moved back to the chair behind the desk. “Good. The Cardinal takes great pleasure in informing me of any misconduct. I do not appreciate having to deal with the man before breakfast.”

He sat and Aramis chanced a look at Porthos, relieved to see the answering grin on the big man’s face.

“Be that as it may,” Treville continued, sorting through papers strewn across the surface of the desk. “I believe it would be a good idea to remove the two of you from temptation for a few days. I have received reports of bandit activity on the north road near Beauvais. I’m sending a patrol out to investigate and I think the regiment’s new lieutenant would appreciate your assistance.”

A knock on the door stymied any questions and Treville’s crisp bark to enter heralded the arrival of his new officer.

The two Musketeers exchanged a look of surprise as the man who’d stepped forward in their defense the previous evening entered the office. He glanced at both Musketeers without acknowledgement, before moving to stand between them in front of Treville’s desk. Aramis didn’t miss the unmarked, dark leather pauldron adorning his shoulder.

“Good morning, Captain,” the man greeted, his voice level and formal. “I am reporting for duty as requested.”

“Yes, Athos, I would like you to meet two of your men.” He stood and motioned toward the soldiers to either side of him. “Aramis is the best marksman in the regiment, you will find his ability with musket or pistol quite useful. Porthos is a new recruit. He is still working to improve his skills with a sword and firearm, but you will find no better man in a fight. Gentlemen, this is Athos. He will be commanding the mission.”

Athos looked from one to the other, one raised brow the only sign of recognition. “We have met.” 

Treville nodded but did not inquire further. “Good. You have your orders.”

Athos nodded smartly and turned, exiting the office in a replay of the night before. Porthos turned to Aramis who simply shrugged in resignation and followed the man out.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Fortuitous Tragedies   
Chapter 4

Athos, as it turned out, was not much for idle conversation – or any kind of conversation save for that which pertained to their given task and their execution of it. And even that was little more than terse commands and abrupt nods ordering them to maintain their diligence, their attention focused on the surrounding terrain.

Aramis and Porthos were riding behind their new lieutenant, giving the marksman an opportunity to study the man. Athos held himself rigid in the saddle, although the bearing of nobility was impossible to miss. Mounted on the large animal, his posture was formal yet comfortable, giving the appearance of a man having been born in the saddle. He kept his attention fixed upon the road before them, but Aramis had no doubt Athos was fully aware of his scrutiny, just as he knew that observance was returned.

This new officer was no soldier; the way he wore his weapons spoke of gentlemanly duels, not battles. While his sword looked well worn, his pistol was hardly scuffed, and Aramis found himself wondering if the weapon had ever been fired at anything other than a stationary target. But while the weapons showed a lack of military experience, Aramis couldn’t help but wonder what Treville had seen that had made him accept the man’s commission and hand him the authority of command. Aramis had no doubt the Captain had his reasons – and he trusted Treville’s judgment more than any commander he had served under – but what those reasons were had yet to be revealed.

It certainly wasn’t Athos’ warm disposition.

They had been riding most of the morning when Athos called a halt, pointing out a flowing stream that ran near the road at the edge of a small thicket where they could water the horses. Aramis dismounted, still deep in thought, unaware of Porthos’ approach until the other man spoke.

“What’s wrong?”

Aramis shook his head, not wanting to give voice to his wandering thoughts. “Why should anything be wrong?”

Porthos chuckled. “Because you’re normally not this quiet, that’s why.”

Aramis smiled, patting his horse on its quivering withers. “My apologies, my friend. I’ve merely been considering our new lieutenant.”

Porthos turned back and glanced at Athos as he squatted down near his horse, his attention focused on the map he held in his hands.

“Yeah? Considering what?”

Aramis shrugged, sighing. “I’ve just never heard of Treville commissioning an officer before. He has always promoted from within the ranks.”

“You feelin’ slighted?”

Aramis looked up, surprised at the sound of concern in his friend’s voice. He shook his head, quickly dispelling the notion. “Hardly. I have no wish to be burdened by command.”

Porthos nodded, accepting the admission. “So what’s the problem?”

“No problem. I’ve just been trying to fathom how much experience our officer has. “

“And?”

“He’s not military.”

Porthos peeked around his horse again and frowned. “How do you know?”

“The way he sits his horse,” Aramis explained. “And his harquebus. It’s not easily accessible. A soldier would keep it within reach.”

Porthos pursed his lips in agreement. “Maybe he’s not much of a shot, prefers to use a sword. He looks pretty capable.”

“Perhaps. But I think there is more to our new friend than a simple Musketeer.”

“Who’re you callin’ simple?” Porthos nudged him in jest, eliciting a grin from the contemplative marksman.

“Very true, Porthos. There is nothing simple about being a Musketeer.”

They led their horses back to the road, mounting and reining in beside Athos.

“Most of the attacks have been reported in this general area,” their leader informed them.

Aramis studied the terrain, noting the slight rise of the land and the thickening of the trees to the left of the road. The stream running along the right widened, and he could hear the sounds of water rushing over rocks up ahead, indicating it widened and deepened, the current gaining strength as it wandered its way back into the distant woods.

“Seems a rather nice place for an ambush,” he observed.

Athos grunted his agreement. “One would not be aware of anyone lying in wait until they topped that rise.”

“And by then it’d be too late,” Porthos added. “They’d already be on you.” He turned to his companions, one brow raised in question. “You think anyone is waiting for us?”

Aramis grinned and a glint of mischief shone in his eyes. “Perhaps we should find out.”

Before either of them could say a word, Aramis spurred his horse past them and galloped up and over the rise. 

“Shoulda known that would happen.” Porthos mumbled, turning his horse to follow. He looked toward Athos, noting his angry frown and shrugged apologetically. “I should’ve warned you about Aramis. He tends to be…”

“Reckless?”

“Fearless.” Porthos clicked his reins and lowered his shoulders as his horse shot forward, Athos right behind him.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

As soon as they topped the rise, they were aware of the five horses bearing down on them from the trees. Aramis already had his pistol out and aimed, dropping one of the bandits before they cleared the forest. The four remaining men were surprised to see the other two Musketeers topping the rise, realizing immediately their quarry was not as helpless and alone as they’d assumed. Two of the men had pistols, but their aim was not as accurate as Aramis’ and their shots went wide, one hitting a tree to Aramis left, the other flying past Porthos’ ear as he reined his horse up on the far side of the road. As the men bore down, already committed to their attack, Athos calmly pulled his own pistol and fired, sending another toppling from his mount, wounded but not dead.

Porthos knew his aim was still suspect, and opted to jump from his horse, intending to take the men on hand-to-hand. Athos steered his horse toward the lead rider, drawing his sword and advancing as one of the other two galloped by, heading straight for the unsaddled Musketeer. As he drew near, the powerful animal aimed directly at Porthos, the big man stepped gracefully to the side and reached up, yanking the rider cleanly from the saddle. Before he could turn, the other rider came at his back and Aramis spurred his horse to intercept. Crashing into the bandit, both horses whinnied loudly and lost their footing, tumbling down the embankment into the rushing water, taking their riders with them.

Porthos turned to find Athos on the ground, sword flashing as he disarmed his opponent and drove his rapier through the man’s chest. Footsteps behind him warned him of the other bandit’s approach and he pivoted, ducking just in time to avoid the dagger that swung where his neck would have been. Pushing off his back leg, he hurled himself at the man, butting his head into his stomach and tipping him onto the ground, following with the weight of his body. As he landed on the bandit, the man’s cry of surprise ended abruptly as the air was driven from his lungs. Porthos quickly divested him of the dagger, driving it through his neck in a swift move that left the man gurgling as the blood spurted from the wound.

Looking up to make sure Athos was all right, he turned toward the edge of the narrow river that he’d seen Aramis and the other bandit tumble over. Scrambling to the side, he looked down, his eyes widening in horror at the sight before him.

The bandit’s unmoving body was being dragged down the stream, carried along by the current while Aramis’ horse was upright and fighting its way to the other side of the wide, swiftly moving stream. The bandit’s horse was on its side, its head at an odd angle, unmoving, obviously having broken its neck in the fall. But what made Porthos’ blood run cold was the figure lying mostly submerged under the dead animal, dark hair flowing in the swiftly moving water.

Aramis was face down, arms extended, his body bobbing as the current tried to carry it off. Pinned by the weight of the horse, his torso was being pushed to the side as the strength of the moving water forced him to bend at the waist like a reed. 

“Aramis!”

Porthos slid down the embankment, throwing himself into the shallow water. He gasped at the shock of the cold water, but didn’t slow, rounding the animal and reaching for his friend’s head. He pulled Aramis up, turning his face so that it was no longer submerged. The marksman’s eyes were closed, his lips tinged blue and Porthos slapped his cheek, trying to get a reaction.

“I’ll hold him! You need to try to shift the horse!”

Athos’ words barely registered, but he felt the man move up beside him in the water, his hands coming to rest beneath Aramis’ cold cheek. Relinquishing his hold on his friend, Porthos shifted, bracing his feet against some larger rocks under the water to give him leverage, and shoved a shoulder against the dead horse’s flank. With a roar of desperation he pushed, the natural buoyancy of the water lending him aid, moving the animal just enough for Athos to pull Aramis’ still form out from under it.

“I’ve got him!”

Porthos released his burden and the horse settled back into the water, this time sinking halfway down now that Aramis body was no longer beneath it. The two men grabbed the unconscious Musketeer under each arm, dragged him from the water and up the embankment, laying him flat on the dusty surface of the road. Porthos dropped to his knees beside his friend and shoved aside the wet hair that clung to his face, slapping him on the cheek hard.

“Come on, Aramis. You promised not to do this to me again.”

“Is he breathing?” Athos had dropped down on the other side of the drowned man. He yanked the glove from his right hand, reaching across and laying it against Aramis’ chest, searching for a sign of life.

Porthos leaned forward, placing his ear close to Aramis’ mouth, listening intently, praying to feel a puff of breath against his face. He shook his head as he sat up, his misery clearly etched on his face.

“You stupid, reckless, idiot!” He slammed a fist down against Aramis’ chest, his fear and grief erupting in anger. He dropped back onto his haunches in shock when the outburst caused his friend to cough violently. Porthos watched, enthralled as water bubbling from Aramis’ mouth, a horrible gurgling sound emanating from his throat.

Athos quickly turned him onto his side as he wretched river water from his lungs, holding him with a hand on his back until he was through, once again breathing, albeit haggardly. The water mixed with bile soaked into the dirt, creating a sticky mud under Porthos’ knees, but he ignored it, moving closer to the struggling man, laying a hand on his shoulder, the other on his head.

“That’s it. Aramis. Get it out. You’re all right. You’re fine. Just breathe.”

As the marksman lay panting, trying desperately to do just that, Porthos looked up, catching Athos’ eyes, swallowing hard. His heart was beating hard in his chest and his breath was sawing in and out of his lungs. For a moment, he saw the relief he felt mirrored in the other man’s eyes, but the emotion was quickly masked and Athos pushed himself to his feet without a word. He took a deep breath and moved toward his horse, which was still standing near the edge of the road next to Porthos’ mount. He pulled a blanket from behind his saddle and moved back to the two men on the ground, shaking it out over the drenched man who had yet to open his eyes and acknowledge his rescuers. Porthos was a bit concerned at Aramis’ abnormal silence, but he was breathing easier now; no longer trying to hack up a lung, so Porthos decided everything else could wait.

“We need to get him dry and warm. Can you manage him?”

Porthos nodded, frowning at Athos’ crisp, dispassionate tone. He took the blanket and began to remove Aramis’ belt and unfasten the bindings on his doublet. Athos moved back to the horses and pulled on the reins, leading them toward the copse of trees on the other side of the road. 

“I will set up camp near the tree line. When you’re ready, bring him there, I will have a fire started.”

Porthos watched him walk off, wondering how anyone could so completely clamp down their emotions as quickly and completely as Athos had. His own heart was still beating fast, the rush of the fight and fear for Aramis beginning to wane, leaving him spent. But Athos seemed perfectly fine – as if nothing unusual had happened.

What kind of man could act like saving a comrade from drowning was of no importance? Aramis shifted under his hands, moaning softly, coughing as his breath caught in his throat. Athos reaction was immediately forgotten as Aramis’ comfort took precedence.

“Easy, my friend. Let’s get you warm, huh?”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The fire crackled, throwing shadows against the trees, the warmth settling over them like a blanket. Porthos had managed to wrestle Aramis from his leathers, wrapping him up and laying him on a bed made of leaves and boughs from the surrounding foliage. He had rolled toward the fire, but he still shivered, his body searching for the warmth the frigid water had stolen from him. 

Porthos finished up some stale bread and cheese, knowing he needed the sustenance if he was going to stay awake and watch over the marksman through the night. Athos sat on a fallen log, his arms across his thighs, his intense eyes focused on the sleeping man on the other side of the fire.

“He is brave,” the older man said evenly. “And headstrong. And fearless. All good qualities for a soldier.” He tilted his head, shifting his gaze to Porthos. “Though I fear his lack of discipline will get him killed.”

Porthos craned his neck and glanced at his friend, buried in the blankets at his side. “It ain’t a lack of discipline that’s the problem.”

“What then?”

Porthos looked up, but he could see nothing but genuine curiosity on Athos’ face. He sighed, knowing Aramis’ demons were a private matter and unsure of whether or not he would want this man privy to his secrets. After a few moments he shrugged, resigned. After everything, perhaps it would be better if Athos knew exactly what drove Aramis to recklessness.

“You heard about what happened at Savoy a few months back?”

Athos pursed his lips, nodded. “Spanish raiding party. Twenty men killed, one deserter, one survivor.”

Porthos nodded, waiting for the man to put it together. It didn’t take long.

“Aramis?”

“Not sure all of him truly survived.”

There was a lengthy pause before Athos responded, his voice low and soft. “No man can go through something like that and come out unscathed.”

“He didn’t.”

Athos raised his hand to his face and ribbed it along his lips, his eyes dropping to study the flames.

“How long?”

Porthos glanced up, confused. 

“How long has he been trying to get himself killed?”

Oh. Porthos snorted through his nose, unsure how to answer the question. He shrugged again, something he seemed to do quite a bit when it came to trying to figure out his friend.

“I don’t think he’s actually trying – at least not knowingly – but he’s been… reckless… ever since he returned to duty.” He wrapped a hand around his neck and squeezed, hoping to alleviate the tension that had built up at the base of his skull – another hazard of being Aramis’ friend.

Athos studied him, and Porthos found himself fidgeting, uneasy beneath the cool blue eyes.

“He’s chasing demons,” the man observed. 

Porthos nodded. “And he’s determined to catch ‘em, it seems.”

“And you don’t know what to do about it.”

Porthos caught himself before he shrugged again. “I’m not sure there’s anything I can do about it. He believes he should’ve died back there in that forest and he’s tempting fate to right that wrong.”

“He has to decide where he belongs. Whether it’s here or back in that forest with his ghosts. No matter what he decides, part of him may forever be tied to them.”

Aramis shifted and Porthos leaned to the side, pulling the edge of the blanket tighter around his trembling form.

“Were the two of you close? Before?”

Porthos smiled fondly. “No. Hardly knew each other. But I knew of him. Thought he was a man worth knowing. Figured there’d be plenty of time for that, and then…” Porthos shifted, poked the fire. “Since he’s been back, he hasn’t really wanted company.”

“Yet here you are.”

Porthos actually laughed out loud. “Here I am.” He sighed, sobering instantly. “He needed a friend and I… I needed one, too, I suppose. Somehow, it ended up working.”

“Then we shall endeavor to keep him among the living.” At Athos’ pronouncement, Porthos looked up, surprised. The older Musketeer let one side of his mouth curl up, as close to a grin as Porthos had seen on the man. “Ghosts cannot compete when the living hold on tightly.”

“You speak from experience?”

Porthos saw the walls go up as soon as he asked the question. Athos’ eyes shuttered and shifted back to the flames. 

“Some ghosts are not banished so easily.”

Porthos suddenly felt a need to console the man, even though he barely knew him. Maybe he was a glutton for punishment; trying to keep Aramis tethered to this world was proving daunting enough. But he’d seen something in Athos’ eyes. Want? Envy? He couldn’t be sure, but he had a feeling Athos was just as haunted as Aramis, and just as in need of friendship. Porthos could never have too many friends. And, he could use some help keeping Aramis grounded. Perhaps focusing on keeping another tethered to this world would give Athos something to hold onto also.

“Even if the living hold on tighter?”

Athos smiled, sad, resigned. “I would not know.”

“Then perhaps we should find out.”

Aramis stirred, moaning as his body began to shiver harder, his brow furrowed, his mouth turned down in a frown. Porthos had no idea if he was still cold or caught in a nightmare of another time when the frigidness of the night air and the silence of the forest had surrounded him. Scooting closer, Porthos leaned back against a tree, pulling the shaking man up into his arms. Aramis was pliant as Porthos settled his back against his chest. He shivered still, but the tremors began to lose their hold as the warmth from Porthos body seeped into his frame, defeating the cold and assuring him he was not alone.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

Fortuitous Tragedies – Part 5

 

He was leaning against something warm. Incredibly warm. Which only served to make him realize how very cold he was. He shivered. A low moan worked its way up from his toes and he heard as well as felt a rumble emanate from whatever he was leaning against. He felt a hand, warm against his cheek and he instinctively leaned into the touch. The rumble coalesced into a voice, but the words were beyond his current level of comprehension. 

“Aramis? You back with us?”

“I believe he’s waking.”

“I hope so. He’s shivering so hard I can’t see anyone sleeping through that.”

Recognition seeped in. 

Porthos. The voice belonged to Porthos.

But it couldn’t be. 

Porthos wasn’t there.

He shivered again, squeezing his eyes tight, knowing that to open them would be to send himself into a waking nightmare from which there was no escape.

The faces of his brothers stared at him, accusing.

Why?

Why had he survived when they had all perished?

Why had he alone been strong enough to live when they had all succumbed?

He had no answers. 

Only more questions.

Strong arms tightened around him.

Marsac?

“No, Aramis. It’s me, Porthos.”

Had he said that out loud? He couldn’t remember. But the rumble was enticingly real, and Aramis let his body sink deeper into the warmth at his back.

“He’ll probably drift in and out until his temperature is back to normal.”

He frowned, trying to place the second voice.

Athos?

The voice was not as familiar as the first, but his sluggish mind put a name to it regardless.

Athos.

But he wasn’t there either.

How was he hearing them if they weren’t there in Savoy with him? It made little sense, and he couldn’t find the strength to care. The cold finally receded and his shivers began to abate, a sense of listlessness overtaking him. He felt himself melt into the warmth, sighing as the arms around him shifted, lending comfort and support to his weary soul. As the cold leeched out, he let his head fall back and sleep overtake him.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must give credit to my friend Jill for the inspiration for part of this chapter. She dreams Musketeers and graciously allowed me to use one of them for this tale. :)


	5. Chapter 5

Fortuitous Tragedies  
Chapter 5

It was dark when he opened his eyes again, no longer shivering from the cold, but still trembling. It was quiet – too quiet, the forest around them silent, the crackling of the fire loud in the stillness. He didn’t move, trying to remember why he was crushed against Porthos’ chest, cradled as a small child, encircled by his friend’s arms.

Across the fire he saw his clothes, stretched out on a log, and he became startlingly aware of his nakedness beneath the blanket tucked around him. He could feel the flush of embarrassment rise in his cheek and he tensed, unsure of what to do to regain some semblance of dignity.

“Aramis?” Porthos voice was soft, barely a whisper against his ear. “You with me?”

Not trusting his voice, he nodded, pulling the blanket closer around him.

“You still cold?” Porthos rubbed his hands up and down Aramis’ arms. He leaned to the side, trying to catch the marksman’s gaze. “Aramis?”

Aramis cleared his throat and shook his head, Pulling himself up and away from Porthos’ warmth. “No,” he grated out, his throat raw, his voice rough. He coughed, wincing at the pain that erupted from his chest. He pulled his arms across his torso, leaning forward in an effort to quell the ache in his chest.

“Easy,” Porthos rolled to his knees, his hand falling on Aramis’ back, lending support without crowding him. “Just breathe, Aramis.”

“Trying,” he choked out, fighting to keep his breaths slow and even. It was a painful process that took a few moments to master, and he was aware of Porthos’ strong hand gently moving in slow circles as he struggled to regain control. When he finally felt as if he could breathe without feeling as if a vise was tightening around him, he turned to his friend with a nod. 

Porthos backed away and rose to his feet, circling the fire to gather Aramis’ clothes in his arms. 

“Bet you want these, huh?”

Aramis smiled, grateful. “I usually prefer to be in much… softer company when naked.”

“So I’ve heard.”

As Aramis quickly dressed, he looked around the camp, his eyes alighting on the still form of Athos further away from the fire.

“Is he…?” Aramis tilted his chin toward the lieutenant, curled up against the tree, fast asleep.

“He dropped off about an hour ago,” Porthos informed him around a massive yawn. “He wanted to stay awake to help me keep watch, but it was stupid for both of us to remain awake and since I wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon…” he shrugged, letting the thought drop off, assuming Aramis would be able to read his motives.

“I appreciate your concern, my friend,” Aramis smiled fondly. “But I assure you I am quite fine now.”

Porthos sat on the log the clothes had been on and shook his head. “No. I don’t think you are.”

Aramis frowned and looked away, focusing intently on the buttons of his breeches. “And what does that mean?”

Porthos took a deep breath, tilting his head back as he studied the stars twinkling above. After a moment of silent debate, he returned his gaze to Aramis, his eyes narrowed, his expression grim.

“Do you want to die?”

Aramis’ denial was immediate. “What? Of course not! Why would you even ask such a thing?”

Porthos sighed heavily. “Running into a fire, sleeping with the Marquis’ mistress, taunting that gambler and now this?” He waved a hand behind them toward the road and the narrow river that ran beside it. “You take chances, Aramis. It’s like you’re taunting death, daring it to try and take you.” He looked fixedly at the marksman, the fire reflecting in his dark eyes. “I want to help you, but I can’t if you don’t want me help.”

Aramis laughed, then sobered, dropping to the ground as if his energy had all but abandoned him. He smiled sadly. “I don’t want to die, Porthos, but I won’t run from it.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you not to court it.”

Aramis couldn’t hold his friend’s gaze and looked away, swallowing hard. “I’m… I am not…” He sighed and shook his head, unable to find the words to explain how he felt. “Sometimes, when I first awake, before my mind can make sense of what surrounds me, I find myself back there, in that forest, cold, hurting, alone. I wonder if I’m dead, too, and just not aware of it. I can see them coming from the trees, I can hear the cries of my brothers as they are slaughtered… then reality takes hold and I wonder…”

“You wonder why you survived.” Porthos did not pose it as a question, rather a statement of fact.

Aramis shrugged and pulled his knees to his chest, resting his arms across them. He leaned back against the tree behind him, studying the fingers on his hand as the light from the fire danced across them. “I’ve asked myself that question every day since I returned, alive and whole. Every single day, and I am no closer to an answer now than I was when I woke up alone amongst the dead.” He let his head fall back, his eyes closed, his inner turmoil leaking out the cracks in his carefully constructed mask. “I don’t know how to move on without that answer.”

“Maybe there is no answer,” Porthos offered. “Maybe it just is.”

Aramis huffed a laugh. “That is very profound, my friend, but not as helpful as you intended.” He opened his eyes in time to see Porthos stifle another yawn and smiled, suddenly very tired, his own jaw cracking in sympathy. “But perhaps now is not the time to begin such a deep, contemplative discussion. You should sleep. I will take watch.”

Porthos yawned again and shook his head. “You’re the one who needs to sleep, Aramis.”

He had to admit, his body had become incredibly heavy and he felt if given the opportunity, he would be able to sleep for a week, but the weariness on Porthos’ face was not something he could ignore. He regretted the alarm he had caused his friend, and felt he owed it to him to give him some peace of mind.

Aramis smiled. “There are only a few hours till dawn and I doubt I will be able to sleep much more tonight. Get some rest, Porthos. I promise you I will be fine.”

Porthos opened his mouth to protest, but something in Aramis’ eyes gave him pause. After a moment, he nodded and dropped to the ground, shuffling round to find a comfortable position, finally allowing his head to fall back against the log. He was asleep in a heartbeat and Aramis was alone in the forest for the first time since he’d been pulled from the snow covered clearing in Savoy.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos wasn’t sure what drew him from sleep, but he was immediately awake, conscious of the cold, aware of the silence surrounding them. The fire was a dying ember, merely a glow from the spent logs that had earlier fueled a warm blaze. Looking around, his eyes fell on Athos, still curled in sleep to his right. The man had not moved since he’d retired the night before and Porthos marveled at how he could sleep so deeply despite the uncomfortable conditions.

Pushing himself up, he stretched his aching back muscles, his head swiveling, searching for Aramis. It was still dark and he squinted, barely able to make out his friend’s silhouette against the night shadows. 

“Aramis?” 

The Musketeer stood still, his back to the dying fire, his gaze scanning the shadows of the tree line across the clearing. His head was tilted down, his dark eyes narrowed, and Porthos couldn’t tell if he was awake or in a walking nightmare.

“Wake Athos.” Aramis’ hushed whisper was barely audible above the crackling of the dying fire.

Porthos took a step toward him, sighing, wondering how to make his friend understand he was safe. “Aramis. Come on. It’s just the cold playing tricks on you. This is not Savoy. You know this.”

Aramis shook his head, his attention never wavering from the tree line. “They’re out there.”

Porthos paused, his eyes tracking across the area in the darkness. This was beginning to scare him. Aramis seemed so… sure. Porthos took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. Whatever turmoil Aramis’ mind was inflicting on him was not his fault, but Porthos couldn’t help but be wary. Despite everything his friend had confided to him, Porthos knew Aramis was still a soldier, with a soldier’s instincts, and he couldn’t dismiss those instincts simply because the man had been through hell.

“No one is out there, Aramis –“

“Porthos! Wake Athos now.” 

A rustle in the tree to their left had Aramis spinning, his pistol up and firing before Porthos could even move. The shot pierced the silence and he startled, his mouth falling open in silent surprise as a body fell from the shadowed limbs of the tree. 

He scrambled for his own pistol, thankful he had thought to reload it earlier. He raised it as more shadows poured from the tree line, screaming Athos’ name as he fired.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

As soon as he heard his name, Athos came fully awake, the familiar sounds of clashing swords extremely close. Snatching up his rapier, he swiftly parried a blade swung at his head, kicking out with a foot, catching his attacker in the stomach. As the man doubled over, breathless, Athos slashed at his chest, watching long enough to make sure the man went down and stayed down.

The gray light of dawn seeped across the sky, making it easier to distinguish the bandits from the shadows of the trees. A quick glance showed both Porthos and Aramis up and locked in battle with their own opponents, two bodies already lying immobile in the dewy grass. Glancing past them, he noticed another man aiming a pistol at Aramis’ back, too far away to hit with a thrown dagger. His own pistol was still on the ground near his bedroll, out of reach and useless.

“Aramis! Behind you!”

Aramis ducked to the side, and Athos found he could breathe again as the shot sailed past the younger Musketeer, hitting his opponent square in the chest. As the bandit fell, Athos dove for his pistol, rolling as he aimed and fired, sighing in relief as the shooter dropped bonelessly to the ground.

Porthos gave a satisfied roar as he drove his opponent to the dirt, swiping his broadsword across his chest, stepping back as the blood spurted from the wound. With a look of surprise frozen on his face, the bandit toppled to the ground, dead.

The three Musketeers each stepped back toward the fire, forming a circle, back to back, their eyes surveying each direction as the light of dawn sent illumination across the area. If there were more men out there, they were nowhere in sight, and Athos suspected they had dealt with the last of the bandits terrorizing the region.

As the sun finally burst over the horizon, sending golden rays of light across the waving grass, Athos lowered his sword and turned to Aramis, his eyes following the younger man’s gaze to the tree line.

“Do you think there are any more out there?”

Aramis huffed a laugh through his nose and shook his head. “I’m probably the last person you should be relying on.” He turned away and crouched down, wiping the blood from his blade with the thick grass. “I see men coming out of the trees in my sleep.”

Athos nodded, remembering what Porthos had spoken of the night before. “Yet it was you who realized we were under attack. Your instincts saved our lives.”

Porthos sheathed his blade and tilted his head as he studied his friend. “Just how did you know they were out there? I didn’t hear a thing.”

Aramis shrugged, avoiding their eyes. “I don’t know. I just… knew. I could feel them watching me.” He glanced up at Porthos, his eyes holding a hint of apology. “At first I thought I was imaging it… that it was some kind of waking dream. But…” He shrugged again and dipped his head, his hair falling forward to cover his eyes.

“A good soldier never ignores his instincts,” Athos said, placing a hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “We are fortunate you were on watch.”

Aramis laughed, dark and humorless. “I wasn’t then.”

Athos’ eyes locked in question with Porthos’, but the big man could only shrug and shake his head in response. He stepped closer to Aramis, who was still crouched in the grass, his blade lax in his hand. “Aramis?”

“At Savoy,” came the soft voice, uncertain, distant. “I wasn’t on watch. I was assigned third watch, before dawn. We were attacked just after nightfall.”

“That is regrettable,” Athos replied, his voice hushed as if trying not to intrude on the memories. “If it had been your watch, I have no doubt the men would not have been taken by surprise.”

Aramis looked up, his brows furrowed, his mouth drawn down into a frown. “You don’t know that.” The words were delivered deliberately, but they were wrapped in a tinge of hope. 

Athos shook his head, his eyes holding Aramis’, steady and true. “No. But from what I have seen here, your instincts are far too honed to be anything but an asset to whomever you serve.”

“He’s right,” Porthos added. “You trusted what you felt and heard – even when I didn’t. And I’m sorry for it. But because of that, we’re all still here to talk about it. I, for one, will never doubt you again.”

Aramis looked from one to the other, silently appraising, wrestling with his own doubts, before rising to his feet and sheathing his sword. He raised his head, smiling crookedly at Porthos. “Even if I am speaking gibberish?”

Porthos laughed, the sound echoing warm and full. “I’m pretty much used to that.”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm 

“That answers a lot of questions.” D’Artagnan tossed a stick into the fire, his smile contemplative as he considered the tale he’d just been told.

“About?”

“Aramis.” He glanced at Porthos across the fire. The big man was reclining against a fallen log, ankles crossed, arms lose against his broad chest. “When we first met I thought him more than a bit reckless. Now I understand why.”

Porthos nodded, his eyes lost in the flames. “He’s tempered it a bit since then, but yeah. Reckless is probably an apt description.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “I always thought he was this charming, friendly person who never let anyone really get to him. But there was always something else – just beneath the surface.”

“Aramis allows people to see what he wants them to see.”

Porthos snorted a laugh at Athos’ assessment. “Which isn’t much. Unless you know him. Then he can’t hide much.”

“He hid his affair with the Queen from all of us,” d’Artagnan pointed out. “I didn’t suspect a thing, and you can’t tell me you did either.” He pointed a finger at Porthos, daring him to disagree.

Porthos shrugged. “I said he couldn’t hide much – he’s still Aramis.”

“And sometimes he even manages to hide from himself.”

D;Artagnan looked at Athos, confused. “Do you think that’s what he’s doing now? By going to Douai? You believe he’s hiding?”

“I think he’s under the impression the world would be a better – safer – place if he was far away from those he believes he would bring harm.” Athos surmised. “Aramis is a soldier, a protector. He has, in his own eyes, failed before to protect those he cared about. He very nearly failed again and it terrifies him. By removing himself from the situation, he has eliminated any provocation or doubt against the Queen and her son.”

“It’s also a way to atone for his sins,” Porthos added.

“But nobody believes Rochefort’s claims, not even the King!”

“And his intention is to keep it that way.” Athos replied.

“By punishing himself?” d’Artagnan shook his head in confusion. “Why? What kind of God expects a man to give up everything he loves to atone for one mistake? One moment of weakness?”

“It seems marriage has made the lad a bit more tolerant.”

Athos snorted a laugh. “Remind me to thank Constance when we return.”

D’Artagnan glared at them both.

“So do you think he’ll come back with us?” he asked after a few moments of comfortable silence.

“I didn’t ride all this way just to go back empty handed,” Porthos grumbled.

Athos raised his eyes, his expression stern. “If he truly believes he is where he belongs, it is not our place to dissuade him.”

Porthos returned the look with a challenging one of his own. “He already said it was what he wanted – with all his heart, if I remember correctly. You didn’t believe him anymore than I did.” He waited a beat and Athos lifted a shoulder in capitulation. “He’s punishing himself. He’s chasing ghosts again. You said it yourself; he’s thinking the world is better if he’s not in it. But he’s wrong.” He turned his gaze back to the fire, his voice going soft. “I just hope we can make him see it.”

“We did it once. Perhaps it will not be as… painful this time.”

Porthos let Athos’ words begin to soothe the ache inside him. They would arrive at the monastery mid-morning tomorrow. They had until then to figure out a way to convince Aramis his self-imposed exile was best for no one. He prayed they were up to the task.

The big man leaned his head back against the log, shuffling to find a comfortable position in the grass, impatient for the dawn. Once settled, he let himself relaxed, calculating the time left before the sun rose and they could continue on their journey. He sighed as he closed his eyes. “We can only hope.”

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who read and I hope you enjoyed. A continuation of sorts is in the works, co-written with my friend JackFan2, encompassing what we would like to see happen when the boys finally arrive at Douai to retrieve Aramis. We are working diligently and hope to have it completed and posted soon!


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